Dramma giocoso per musica
by Sarah Elmira Royster Poe
Summary: Martin is constantly tired and late for work. What keeps him awake at night? Or, Martin has a secret, Herc is ill, and Carolyn goes to the opera. Or a play in 4 Actions and a Mozart Concerto. Now beta'd by firefly.1212. Thank you!
1. A Night at the Opera

_"Dramma giocoso per musica"_

_Notes: I own nothing. Beta'd by the beautiful firefly.1212!_

**_Act 1_**

**_Scene 1_**

Martin fumbles with the keys of that damned van, but his hands do not cooperate. The freezing cold has numbed his fingers. He looks at his watch; nine minutes past ten. He panics even more – he hadn't thought it was possible – because this is a new watch and unlike his old _genuine_ Patek Philippe, it is not broken. Υet.

He hurries to cross the airfield and he approaches the port cabin. After some fruitless tries to open the rusty door, he leans against the heavy entrance, pushing inwards with his shoulder. Panting, he is greeted by the bemused expressions of his first officer, his "Sir" – as Carolyn demanded he call her – and the perpetually cheerful Arthur.

"Oh, look, who cared to honour us with his presence!" Carolyn says in her sarcastic high-pitched voice. Martin, panting and heaving, hurries to explain.

"Carolyn, I'm extremely sorry, my van kept stopping and crashing and I hand to move a lady's couch and I didn't-"

Martin's rant is interrupted by Douglas, right at the point when the captain has begun to hyperventilate.

"Martin, I am sure your adventures will be most interesting, but we're on a tight schedule, in case you hadn't noticed." The smug pilot raises his eyebrow questioningly.

"Yes, yes, yes, of course! Yes! Ermmm… Have you done the walk-around?"

* * *

**_ Scene 2_**

"Carolyn… I'm sorry! I…."

"Martin, no! Apologies later! We need to…"

"Oh, Captain! You shouldn't bother to come!"

"Douglas, I'm…"

The Captain raises his arms in exasperation and he lets them fall to his sides.

"Profoundly sorry?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, how I guessed that! Like you were the last twenty or thirty times during these three months. What's keeping you up so late at night, Sir?"

Martin expression changes rapidly, alternating from conveying apology to astonishment and nervousness. He looks at Douglas questioningly.

"Why do you think something keeps me up late at night?"

He bits his lips and Douglas' expression is bemused and his upper lip quirks.

"Well, you're always late for flying, which you never were and you never normally would have been…"

The ginger pilot averts his gaze hurriedly.

"It is only normal; I am a human being, things happen… Traffic jams, my van kept-" His eyes have been turned bright red.

"Oh, don't talk sly to me, Martin! I know I am a good teacher, but even I can't make a good liar out of you." The man in question looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

"I am not lying!" he defensively exclaims.

"Oh, please Martin! You would have never missed a flight or arrived late at the airport for the world! You used to be here hours early to check out every screw on this plane! Don't play dumb with me!" The elder pilot smirks cunningly, with the smugness of someone who just unraveled a big secret. He is always so full of himself.

"I'm not-" the freckled man protests and stomps his foot on the floor.

"So, the only natural conclusion is that something, or would I say someone, is keeping you up late. If we also take into consideration your blood shot eyes and your-"

"Hey chaps! Coffee's here!"

Arthur appears and Martin lets a sigh slip. Douglas is smiling knowingly as Martin yawns and rubs his eyes with open palms.

"Thank you, Arthur!" He sips at his coffee and makes a frown of distaste.

"Arthur, this is bitter!" The steward is in the process of leaving but turns to look at Martin apologetically.

"Sorry, no sugar. Mum wants to cut down the expenses, she said." He shrugs.

"Oh for god's sake!" Arthur exits the cockpit and Martin deflates.

"Oh, Douglas?" He slides further into the captain's chair. He takes his cap off and lets in rest above the controls.

"Yes?"

The hum of the grey-haired pilot is sarcastic. How can he make a hum sound sarcastic?

"Do you need me for anything else? I think the autopilot can handle GERTI and you can take over if you want. I… I need to get some tea. This coffee is awful!"

Douglas raises his eyes from the stack of paper he pretends to fastidiously study.

"Oh, Sir? Am I worthy to take over from your capable hands?"

The younger man is in the process of leaving the cockpit. He replies in a tired voice without even looking at Douglas.

"I'm sure you'll manage. Don't fret. Don't tell me you've become self-conscious all of a sudden?"

His voice is not bitter, despite his biting sarcasm. Douglas has been a destructive influence after all. The sitting man notices the way his captain's back is hunched and how difficult each step seems to be for him. He notices the captain's hat above the controls. He could say that the CAA would not agree with the misplacement and misuse of equipment. He says nothing.

* * *

**_Scene 3_**

"Carolyn, I need to talk to you!" Douglas whispers secretly, looking anxiously behind his back.

"Douglas! Heavens! You gave me a fright! What are you doing here, lurking in the dark?"

"Carolyn, no need to scream! Whisper for God's sake!"

"Why, what happened? Are you playing a game with Martin?"

"No, no games. We need to talk."

"We are talking, you do realise that, right?"

"Not right here, not now! After we land, wait for me."

"Douglas, this is ridicul-"

Carolyn is bowed and it seems like she is lacing her shoes. Except her shoes have no laces. And she is leaning quite close to Douglas. Oh, God! What could she possibly… Oh! She is whispering in his ear. Quite sneakily. Martin approaches and the murmurs cease.

Carolyn straightens her clothes in a nervous attempt to conceal her previous doings and Douglas continues in another topic of conversation nonchalantly, looking as smug as ever. Martin notices but he is too worn down to care.

"'Morning." He says and he downs his cap in a mocking fashion to his first officer.

"'Morning, Captain." says the deep voice of the grey-haired man.

"'Morning. I dare to notice that you're early today, Martin. How come?"

Carolyn tries her best to conceal her biting sarcasm. Martin chokes on his spit and swallows reflexively.

"Well, I had a proper night's sleep yesterday. I had the evening free, no removals, no hassle. Bad for my pocket, good for my beauty sleep, as you can see." Martin stretches his hands above his head.

"Oh." Douglas' eyebrows rise as if surprised. Martin stalls but eventually turns to address his "Sir".

"Carolyn. Could I… May I, please, talk to you later?" The nervous redhead bites his lips.

"I mean, personally, if you have the time?" Martin fidgets with the gold braid of his captain's hat, holding it in his hand, his eyes staring at a vacant space, like somehow the carpet, was of paramount importance. Douglas is looking at the younger man, staring at him, studying him. He makes him feel uncomfortable. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Carolyn does not immediately answer.

"I am sure you will be occupied, we could..." The rambling, which is sure to come, is interrupted by the lady's high-pitched voice.

"Martin. Did I refuse you to talk to me? No. So, don't jump into any conclusions. We'll talk in the galley later. Although, if you want to complain about how we are not having a pilot's lounge-"

"I'm not-" Martin tries to defend himself once more.

"Let me finish. Or if you want to complain about your hotel rooms-"

"Oh, you outdid yourself this time, though, Carolyn." Douglas seems _really_ eager to express his opinions.

"Shut up Douglas. Let me share something with the two of you. I don't give a penny." She doesn't like it. You could tell.

"No, it's not that." The slender pilot speaks quietly and leaves the room entering the cockpit. Carolyn and Douglas share worried looks.

* * *

**_Scene 4_**

The door of the galley closes with a little clicking sound, and immediately Martin feels asphyxiated.

"So, Martin, is this about what I think it is?" She challenges him with her gaze.

"I'm not sure, what you think it is, but I wanted to ask you about a pay rise."

Carolyn huffs.

"I've told you millions of times that I _cannot_ give you a pay rise, not that I don't _want_ to give you one. Why is that so hard to understand?"

"Carolyn, all I'm asking is a small, petit, salary. Anything you could give. I am not. Because…" He trails off and his eyes have a dreamy quality, like his mind is somewhere else.

Carolyn stalls and takes in the noticeable changes in Martin's appearance. He is thinner than usual; that ridiculous uniform off his is hanging on his frame, looking like a borrowed one, like a costume. He is paler than usual, and his eyes have black circles underneath them. He doesn't look healthy. He inhales deeply.

"Look, Carolyn. Forget I ever asked you about it again." He rubs his eyes.

"No, Martin…" She trails off, unsure of how to continue.

"I'll see what I can do," she says finally. The words taste wrong. Martin nods curtly. Without saying a word, he exits the galley.

The door of the galley closes with a little clicking sound, and immediately Carolyn feels asphyxiated.

* * *

**_Scene 5_**

They decided to meet at a local pub, near Fitton airport. It goes by the hideous name – or so Carolyn said – "Eagle and Child". The place is gloomily lit; the tables are low and red-faced lousy men and the whole place stinks of beer and sweat. An elderly woman is sitting at the most remote table, near the corner, distinctive by her demeanour and clothing. It is obvious that she didn't belong there.

"You're bloody late!" she says to a well-dressed, suave man. Everyone turns to look at him, for he walked like he owned the place.

"Happy to see you too, Carolyn," he replies and sits on the table; uninvited.

"The question implied was, why are _you_ bloody late." The woman, whose name is Carolyn, gazes at him sternly.

"I had to take Martin home." The tall man waves at the barman, and he, as an old friend would, nods and disappears in the kitchen.

"Home? Whose home? His home?" Her expression is a mixture of bemusement and worry.

"Yes, Carolyn. His home. God knows that taking Martin to my home would probably do only good at him! I would stuff some food in him, before he passed out." The barman approaches and places two empty glasses on the table.

"Why did you get to be his butler? I imagine he would rather die than have to ask you for a favour!" The glasses are filled with what appears to be whiskey.

"His van was broken and he had no other means of getting to that ghastly attic, he still calls home." The grey haired man rubs his forehead and his eyes, as if tired.

"Anyway, we're not here to talk about Martin. What did you want to tell me, Douglas?" Carolyn is getting annoyed.

"We're here to talk precisely about Martin." The man, Douglas, leans forward and places his elbows on the wooden table, his head resting on his fists.

"That was the reason you dragged me into this hole?" She hisses.

"Hole? I would say it has a friendly atmosphere, like an old inn, a traditional pub." The man smiles.

"Look Douglas, I have no time to waste. Arthur is waiting for me all alone at home. God only knows what I'll find when I go back!" She tries to leave.

"Okay, okay. I want you to share your views on the Exhausted Captain Conundrum and its implications. You surely have noticed the rapid changes to our beloved Captain."

Carolyn sits down slowly and her face is solemn, her brows are knit.

"Yes. Indeed I have." She looks at her conversational partner suggestively.

"What are your theories, then?" The man leans back again.

"I'm worried Douglas, I really am. I've seen how pale and thin and grumpy he is. He probably doesn't get any sleep, either. And today, he…" She trails off.

"He?" the man encourages her. "He did what?"

"He asked me for a pay rise."

"What's the unusual in that? He asks for a pay rise every other day!"

"This time was different. He… he seemed weary. Like he was out of strength. He didn't even say a word of protest when I told him I would think about it." She reached for her glass and hesitantly took a sip. "What have you noticed?"

"He is tired. Exhausted. He hasn't lost his enthusiasm or competence, though. If anything he seems to be more concentrated, more eager. How he manages not to collapse is beyond me. We have to do something."

"We are not his guardians, though." The woman looks at the other man thoughtfully.

"Or, are we?" She drinks all the remaining whiskey in her cup and grabs her bag.

"Let's go" she says. Startled, Douglas turns to face her.

"Where to?"

"To a certain _ghastly attic_," she replies as she heads for the door. The posh man stands up and with two long strides reaches her. He opens the rusty door and bows his head.

"Ladies first."

On the wooden table, _one_ glass of whiskey is still full.

* * *

**_Act_ _2_**

**_Scene 1_**

They drive in silence, until they reach Martin's place. Neither of them has really thought about what to say once they get there. But here they are, in an open parking space, looking at the grey building at their right, facing the thorns of their plan. They didn't have a plan. That was the main thorn.

Carolyn was the one to break the awkward silence. "Well, that is an atrocity!"

Douglas looks at her, his expression unreadable.

"Let's find him." He opens the door of the expensive shiny car and mud stains his shoes, as he steps down. He helps the lady out. They head for the bleak building and with uncertainty the man approaches its entrance. Some kids, in their early twenties are sitting on the stairs. A black haired boy stands up and drops the cigarette he was smoking on the ground. He stamps his foot on the fag.

"Hey! Who's that?" he waves at the others; still sitting. Two of them stand up.

Carolyn looks nervously at Douglas.

"Excuse us; we are Martin Crieff's friends. We would like to see him. Is he here?"

Douglas speaks nonchalantly but Carolyn tights her grip around his hand.

The black haired boy wears a hoodie and some worn out jeans. He reaches at his pocket to light another cigarette.

"Gee, you are!" He laughs and brings the cigarette at his lips.

"So, why would you 'like to see him'?" He takes two steps closer to the pair. Douglas can feel his breath on his neck as he leans closer.

"None of your business. Is he staying here?" The grey haired man flinches at the proximity of their bodies.

"Oh, you're mouthy!" the boy says and smirks. Somehow it's disturbing. The whole situation is. Someone roars from the stairs. "Belt up, man! He's a foreigner! Why don't you pass him some pot? He needs it." The last comment emanates roaring laughter from the obviously drunk company. They are sprawled on the stairs, smelling of beer and urine.

"Do you have a lighter? I lost mine," the boy in the hoodie says as his hand carefully slides down Douglas' trouser pocket. Carolyn's eyes widen and the pilot shoves the man violently, making him stumble, losing his balance. The kids on the stairs laugh, muttering things like "Get him, bro!" or "Cor love a duck! The man is a blushing virgin!"

Douglas' face is red with anger but his manic spree is interrupted by the loud voice of the man that just appeared out of the window of a first floor apartment.

"Oi! You lot! Bugger off or I'll gut you!" The man's head disappears and the gang starts to disperse only to flee when the man appears on the door, just above the stairs. His look is menacing, but the young boys and girls still spit and yell at him as they're leaving.

"I'll get you, you son of -" The newly appeared man, wearing a grey t-shirt and some baggy trousers grabs the insolent boy by the collar of his shirt and leaves him panting for breath. Without a word he lets him drop to the ground. He runs down the street to where his "friends" have disappeared.

"And stay out!" the _deus ex machina_ exclaims. Carolyn and Douglas have been looking in stunned silence and bewilderment the events that have been unfolding and just now the mighty Skygod finds his voice.

"Ehmmm… Excuse us, Sir?" The man turns to look at them astonished, as if he has forgotten their presence. His hands are still fisted and his face red.

"Oh! I am really sorry for all that! They're scum, they're always sloshed and they come here to bully the kids. I'm the oldest here, so…" He trails off.

Douglas clears his throat and extends his hand.

"Richardson. Douglas Richardson. We're friends of Martin." The man shakes the pilot's hand.

"And I'm Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. We should thank you for your help. They were…" She makes a disgusted grimace.

"Oh, don't mind them! They'll grow up! They'll not change, mind you. They're the type that will turn into mindless drunkards that'll be kicked out of pubs." He stands on his tip-toes and stretches his neck to watch the street. A black van is parked right on the pavement, in front of the wrecked building.

"That's the best scenario, certainly." Douglas with his deep baritone voice smiles at the man, making him focus his attention on the strange couple. "And who are you, may I ask?" he asks most politely.

"My name's Harris. I'm the oldest here as, I told you. I can't seem to find another place, so I'm stuck here. Don't mind it. I keep the kids out of trouble."

The 'oldest' man was in his early thirties according to Douglas' best assessment.

"The kids?" Carolyn interrupts.

"Oh, yeah. Most of them are from the agricultural college, from down the road. Decent kids, not used to this neighborhood. It's a queer one. Who are you looking for, again?" He stretches his neck again, scanning the street.

"Martin." Carolyn says somehow exasperated.

"Oh, Martin! The pilot in the attic?" he smiles.

"Yes, the pilot. How did you know?" Carolyn steps forward and wears her sweetest smile. That one that looks quite shark-y, according to Douglas. She thought that her I'm-Queen-Victoria smile would not have been appropriate.

"Attic?" Douglas exclaims, murmuring under his breath.

"How did I know that he's a pilot? Gosh, how can you not know? He's always yakking about planes and stuff. That and the bloody music!" The man runs his hand through his short hair.

"Pardon? Music you said?" Douglas' interest piques again.

"Yes, that damned thing that squeals like someone stepped on a cat's tail! I'm not here most of the time, so I don't mind, but sometimes… Any road, I was never an artsy person. The kids say his good." He shrugs his shoulders.

"Music? What music?" Carolyn asks.

"Oh, don't ask me! I told you; not an artsy person." He singsongs the words. Then he waves his hand at a figure emerging from the black van and nods.

"Sorry, have to go. The door is unlocked. Take the stairs to the top. He'll probably be upstairs. If he ain't, talk to Barbara on the first, and she'll pass him your message." He practically runs to the exit.

"You said, Barbara?" Douglas cries loud enough to be heard.

"Yeah. She's the gal that gives him some nosh when he's starving. Pays his electricity bills from time to time. He would have been frozen to death without her! It can get really chilly up there, y'know! Well, t'ra!" He stalls just a moment and as soon as the words are said, he disappears, running.

"Thank you!" Carolyn shouts.

"Take care of him!" His voice is muffled by the starting engine of the black van.

* * *

**_Scene 2_**

The building is hideous. Really appalling. Patches of the paint in the walls have been removed and the tiles on the floor are cracked and moldy. The doors of the apartments are all half opened, the locks broken either by rust or by force. A burglary would be a walk in the park! The building is paradoxically clean, though. Impeccably so. It smells of chlorine and green soap. The decay around them has not discouraged the students, apparently. Quite voices are heard, those of a radio playing at a low volume. Other than that, the block of flats is quiet. Occasionally, the sound of a violin from someone's stereophonic would be heard at the peak of the piece.

Carolyn and Douglas' pacing is heard all over the building, their heels clicking on the cold tiles and the sound echoing off the never-ending, tall walls. The white-haired woman turns to look at Douglas with a strange expression of worry and something else he can't define yet.

"Carolyn, did he say attic?" she looks at the tall man.

"Yes. It seems so." She averts her gaze. She feels guilty, which is ridiculous because none of this was her fault.

"And you weren't surprised. Did you know?" His tone was conversational but his eyes were accusing.

"I might have been aware of the fact, yes." She looks straight at his eyes. He says nothing.

"God it's freezing in here!" She tightens her shawl around her.

"Hello! Is anybody here?" Douglas' voice makes a tremendous echo, sounding much more looming and loud than intended. The violin continues playing.

For a while nothing else is being heard and no one appears. Just when the pair decides to start knocking at doors as a last measure, a female voice breaks the silence.

"Hello? Someone shouted?" The voice grows louder and louder and a woman appears behind a door.

"Hello! Yes. We shouted. We would like to see Martin." Douglas goes to shake the woman's hand, smiling smugly. The girl with the black curly hair and the brown skin looks at them, assesses them and then open the door reluctantly.

"You're not from Kevin's mob, are you?" she says.

Douglas chuckles. "No, we're not. Do we look like those kind of people?" He extends his hand further. "My name is Douglas Richardson and this is Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. We're from the airline company that Martin works for. I'm his First Officer."

"And I am the CEO of the company." The girl is convinced and smiles at them. She doesn't shake Douglas' hand.

"Hello, I'm Barbara. Sorry for the cold reception. We're not used to visitors." Her smile is genuine and pleasant.

"Barbara. Nice to meet you. A man named Harris told us about you. He said you could lead us to Martin."

"Harris? Oh, he's a good bloke. A bit barmy sometimes. I know about you two! Martin has told me all about you and I… think you have a son."

"Yes. You're quite right. His name is Arthur." Carolyn smiles too. One of her real smiles this time.

"Alright. Let me take you to Martin. One minute, please." She closes the door and removes the security chain. She opens it back again.

"I hope you don't mind climbing up some stairs." She leads the way.

The stairs are spiral and Carolyn becomes dizzy. There is no handrail. The violin music gets louder and louder. Maybe the owner of the stereo stays in the upstairs flats or he is turning up the volume. Douglas recognises the melody. Bach's Chaconne.

"Nice that you came to visit him." Barbara says and turns to look at the two panting elders inquisitively.

"You should come more often. He could use the company. Make him get out for a change. It's not healthy, living like this." Her face turns solemn and her expression is caring. Douglas and Carolyn share a look.

"Like this?" Douglas questions her.

"He's sad, you can tell. He's lost weight and he's off colour. He always was thin because he hadn't got any money to buy proper food, but we - I mean the students - spared a penny for him. Now, he's strange, though. He leaves the house in the evenings and he comes home late at night. He doesn't even have delivery jobs. I know because his van is broken and he hasn't fixed it for a week. We offered to chip in and he would repay us later, but he refused. He's too damned proud. Watch your step madam. Are you feeling quite alright?" Carolyn isn't feeling alright. Not at all.

"Yes, I'm fine." She holds Douglas' arm to find her equilibrium again. She's feeling sick.

"Here we are!" Barbara exclaims. The music stops. The man must have turned his radio off. What a pity. The violinist was really skilled and the piece hadn't come to an end.

* * *

**_Scene 3_**

The brown-skinned girl dashes back down the stairs as some noise is heard from the backyard. She curses under her breath and yells. The kids give them all trouble, she says. Douglas knocks the door. A rustling of fabric and a thudding noise can be heard from the other side of the corridor. The door's hinges protest and through the slightest of openings some ginger locks and a freckly face appear.

"Who is it?" the man's voice is suspicious.

"One would have thought that Sir would be a little friendlier to his First Officer." Douglas smugness returns again and he smiles warmly.

"Douglas?" The door opens and Martin stands in the doorway, wearing far too baggy grey pajamas with a blanket draped around his shoulders and a steaming cuppa in his hand.

"Carolyn? What are you doing here?" His face is clearly surprised and bemused. His eyes are smiling.

"How did you even know where I live?"

"Martin, you asked me to bring you here earlier today. Don't tell me you got Alzheimer's already?" Douglas' attempt at picking on Martin is half hearted. You cannot blame him.

"Oh yes, of course!" Martin exclaims and nervously runs his hand through his hair. For a moment no one speaks and the ginger young man stares at the floor. The awkward silence is broken by Carolyn.

"Well, it's not polite to leave your guests standing on the doorway!" She smiles at him and the lean boy hurries to invite them in.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Ermmm… Come on in!" He chuckles and his face turns bright red.

Carolyn and Douglas step inside the cold attic. The room is small. Very small. A big glass window replaces the front wall of the apartment. The roof is triangular and the two other walls slide down the tiled floor. It gives the feeling that Martin is living in a giant bird house, and not an attic with a dormer.

A mattress with some sheets and different layers of blankets and duvets is cramped in one corner of the strange triangular shaped room and books litter every available surface. That means they adorn the floor, the small wooden kitchen table and the shelves above the sink – though, they were probably meant to accommodate plates and cooking equipment. Strangely enough, a desk is nowhere to be seen. Martin's Captain uniform is hanging from a coat-hanger nailed on the wall, along with some jeans, a couple of t-shirts and a woolen short jacket. A wardrobe is nowhere to be seen as well. A single worn-out armchair is at the center of the room, covered with a florid cloth.

Martin fidgets nervously with his blanket. "Well, I would tell you to sit down but as you can see…" He trails off and tries to remove some volumes of aviation history from the old armchair that looks suspiciously alike one in Carolyn's grandmother's house.

"Martin, God! Nice place." Douglas almost bites his tongue after that. It comes out a lot more sarcastic that he meant it too. Martin doesn't seem to notice. He's too preoccupied with trying to free some space for the three of them by piling away books and some clothing mostly.

"Carolyn, sit please." He says and points at the atrocity, of Victorian aesthetic, of an armchair. Carolyn remains speechless but sits nonetheless.

"Douglas, I'm afraid…" Martin looks around in despair but then exclaims in surprise.

"No, wait here. Just a moment!" He says and dashes out of the old attic.

"God!" Carolyn looks at Douglas. "Carolyn, be a little more talkative. He looks… uncomfortable." Douglas whispers. Carolyn nods.

Martin appears, dragging a wooden chair behind him. He closes and the door and huffs.

"Well, Douglas, I found you a seat!" he says triumphantly as he folds his blanket and tosses it onto the mattress on the floor.

"Thank you Martin, you shouldn't have. We could go for a coffee or-" Douglas starts but Martin halts him.

"Nonsense. I can be a very good host, you know. The means are limited as you can see, but the good will is not." He smiles and presents them with two mugs.

"Tea, anyone?" he asks. Carolyn takes one and places it on the kitchen table.

"Thank you, Martin. I would love some." She sounds stiff.

"I would like some too, if that's not a trouble." Douglas hurries to add. Martin pours the boiling water and baptizes two teabags inside the two mugs. He leans on the kitchen stool.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, it is a bit cramped, I know." He looks really nervous.

"Oh, we don't bother Martin! It's… cozy." Carolyn says. She's not very convincing.

Martin chuckles. "Yes, I suppose it is. I like the view." He says and turns to the glass wall. "You can see the sky. You don't feel trapped like in most flats. Plus, it's cheap. And the kids are alright." He sips his tea.

"We met Barbara and Harris," says the smooth talking Skygod, currently at a loss for clever and snotty remarks.

"Oh, Barbara! She's good. She's brilliant!" Martin has a broad smile on his lips.

"Heaven's! You're not Arthur, so she must be really good to be described as "brilliant" by our grumpy pilot!" Carolyn seems a bit more like herself.

"Yeah, she's… helped me a lot when I needed someone." He looks at his feet, suddenly sadder. He takes a deep breath and smiles again.

"I don't suppose you two have a thing… going on, have you?" Douglas smiles mischievously.

"Me and Barbara? No! No! Good heavens, no!"

"It would explain why you are constantly exhausted lately." Carolyn seems to entertain the idea.

"Ehm. No. There's nothing going on, Douglas. I assure you. Why would I hide it from you, anyway?" He places the hot tea on the table.

"So, you didn't tell me. Why are you here?"

For a fragment of the second, the pair looks at each other, at loss for words, and then the older pilot hurries to reply.

"No reason at all. We just wanted to drop and say hello. Isn't that what people do?" Martin's eyes narrow.

"No… That's what other people do, you don't. You always have a reason. You wouldn't ride all that way to say _"a hello"_! You haven't done so in the three years we've know each other!"

He seems a little bit annoyed and amused at the same time.

"Oh, Martin, you don't have to be so suspicious of my motives. Even I have some moments were my best intentions to serve for the greater good overthrow my natural egocentricity." Douglas smiles back charmingly.

"You're up to something big, aren't you?" Martin chuckles.

* * *

**_Act 3_**

**_Scene 1_**

"Douglas, would you care for a ticket to the opera?"

Martin huffs in frustration, nothing seems to work on GERTI.

"Opera? Why are you suddenly so generous, Carolyn? Did you steal it?"

"Don't be daft, Douglas! Herc bought these tickets, but he's gotten terribly ill, so I was thinking, who do I know who could escort me to a night at the opera!"

"And you naturally thought of Douglas, Carolyn? Really? I am surprised." Martin mutters.

"Well, how many other suave man that can actually pass for a member of the royal family do I know who can escort me to a dashing ball? Besides, I fancy seeing Douglas in a suit. He must be ludicrous!" Carolyn wears a broad smile.

"Really Carolyn? _'A Suave man that can actually pass for a member of the royal family'_? If I didn't know better, I would have thought you just made a pass at me."

Martin dumps the paper, and almost sobs in exasperation. No one seems to notice.

"Douglas, don't flatter yourself, you were my last resort. So, are you going to take the damned ticket or not?"

"Since you asked so politely, how could I refuse?"

Martin stands up abruptly and drops the papers off his chair.

"How wonderful! We're all participating in classical music galas! Would any one of you care to do your jobs?" He dashes off the room and bangs the door of the galley. He slides down the closed door and sits on the beige carpet. He buries his face in his hands and sobs freely. They're tears of fatigue and frustration.

"Skip, are you alright?"

He almost jumps at surprise from the warm hand on his shoulder. He whimpers as a response.

"Because if you aren't…"

He doesn't raise his eyes, until he hears a rustling noise and some things falling and hitting the ground. Startled, he sees the pile of kitchen plates on the floor and Arthur extending his hand. He laughs.

In the steward's open palm, there is a green apple.

* * *

**_Scene 2_**

"Carolyn, you look dashing!" Douglas opens the front door of his shiny black car and bows just slightly.

"Thank you and you are _late_. We are half an hour behind of schedule." She gets in the car and slides, not so gracefully, onto the leather seat.

"Oh, this is nice! Leather! Herc is a vegetarian!" The well dressed man in the three-piece suit starts the engine and chuckles.

"Glad you enjoy it as much as I do. Where are we off to?"

"Church of St. Bartholomew's."

* * *

**_Scene 3_**

The people are too noisy and their ongoing jibber jabber makes him mad. They sound like millions of flies and bees flapping their wings and making this distasteful irritating noise. They sting occasionally too.

They're all too well dressed. They were told to, it's only natural, but still. The black suits make him feel he's in a funeral. He doesn't wear one. He wears the dark blue pants of his Captain uniform, his only white shirt and a tweed jacket Barbara gave him. She said it was an old one that a friend of hers had forgotten. She was lying though, because he found the price tag still on. He wanted to refuse it, but he hadn't anything else to wear, because his Captain's jacket had the epaulets on. He'll be very careful not to spill anything on it and he'll return it. He promised her.

He opens the little black case and positions the papers better. He can hear more people coming in, more bees flying in the room. His stomach sinks.

"Martin, don't worry. You'll be great." a warm voice tells him. He turns to look at the brown haired girl with the little black dress.

"Thank you Sally, it's just… It's just my first time." He smiles nervously.

"Forget about them. There is only you, now. You are the king of the world." She smiles at him.

The bees have stopped flying and the lights are out. _"I am the king of the world."_ He whispers.

He takes a deep breath.

**_ ##_**

"Carolyn, these seats are great! How did Herc-?"

The woman with the bright red scarf and the golden crochet jacket sits by the smart man and holds his arm.

"Shush, Douglas! They're starting!" The man huffs in annoyance, but leans forward in anticipation.

He leans in and whispers in Carolyn's ear. "What is the title of the opera?"

"Don Giovanni, Mozart," she reads from the leaflet they handed to them at the entrance. She doesn't have time to look at the musicians, the lights are out and the murmurs of the audience cease.

Douglas smiles. Don Giovanni. _L'opera bouffa. _How appropriate! He takes a look at the big hall while it is still dimly illuminated. The old church is charming, it has a nice medieval ambiance, and the candles that hesitantly shed their light on the stone walls compliment the soft notes of the strings.

_"Ah taci, ingiusto core" – "Ah, be quiet unjust heart"_

Douglas sits back and hums the words whilst Carolyn's eyes glitter, despite her strong claims that she hates the opera. The music unfolds and the musicians play with passion and strength, until the melody calms again and the voices of the singers lull the whirling thoughts and doubts.

* * *

**_Act 4_**

**_Scene 1_**

_"Vedrai carino" – "You'll see, dear one"_

The beads of sweat trickle down his neck and his arms feel numb, while his fingers are on fire. His eyes are closed and he's focused, his senses are acute. He feels every tremolo; he listens to every tone, every mistake, every legato and misplaced staccato. He doesn't dare to breathe, doesn't dare to move an inch from his uncomfortable chair. He doesn't mind. His tight pressed lips break into a small smile.

With the last spicatto everything stops.

_**##**_

"Wow. That was an incredible first Act!" someone is heard saying. Carolyn always hated that. During the intermissions, someone would have to ruin the atmosphere with an unnecessary loud remark and inflict his opinion to anyone at a three mile radius.

"Douglas, what did you think?" Carolyn turns to look at her First Officer, but she is greeted by the sight of a grey haired man who has narrowed eyes and stares at a spot at the orchestra.

"Carolyn, did you just see…?" He points with his finger trying to explain something but the lights go out again and his words are muffled by the singers' arias.

_"Sola, sola in buio loco" – "All alone in this dark place"_

* * *

**_Scene 2_**

He feels a nudge at his elbow. He leans backwards.

"I told you, didn't I?" Sally says amused.

"Yes, you did. Why did I even doubt?" He laughs.

The world is a magical place, he thinks. And life is beautiful. Really, really beautiful. He can be master of his own fate, at last! At least for a couple of hours, he can be king. _"I am the king of the world."_ he whispers again and he picks up the delicate wooden treasure. His own treasure.

"_Il mio tesoro" – "My treasure"_

**_##_**

_"Ah pietà signori miei" – "Ah, have mercy, my lords"_

"Douglas, I must admit, that this is magnificent! I have never cared for these-"

Douglas grabs her hand and sits up, attempting to drag her with him.

"Excuse me, Sir! What are you doing! You cannot go out now!" An old lady protests, annoyed and surprised. Douglas doesn't even spare her a second glance or an apology.

"Sir, you are blocking the view... Sir. Sir!" A posh woman with a beige dress and a small hat looks scandalised.

"Douglas, what in the name of _sanity_, are you doing?" The white haired woman hisses through gritted teeth, while grabbing her bag in hurry.

"Carolyn, you will absolutely _not_ believe what I have just seen. I swear to God, I just-" The pilot is breathless and he's trying to make way in the narrow passageway between the rows of seating. The lights go out again and he curses under his breath.

* * *

**_Scene 3_**

This is the last chance of freedom. This is how it feels when you are invincible, Martin thinks. He is not Martin anymore. He does not live in a ghastly attic. He does not have to eat every other day to pay the bills. He flies. Real, proper flying this time.

He has wings and flies, looking down on the hateful world. He sees the little houses, the countryside, the green fields and the grey roads, twirling like snakes. As the music rises to a crescendo, he flies even higher, and now he sees the blue ocean and the sparkling lights of London, of Paris and of Rome.

He travels and travels and travels and feel the wind on his face, he breathes and tastes the clouds. He can smell humidity and rain.

He doesn't need to open his eyes ever again. The real world is just disappointing.

_ "Here am I waiting for revenge against the sacrilegious one who gave me death" - Dell'empio che mi trasse al passo estremo qui attendo la vendetta_

**_##_**

Douglas stumbles and trips on the red thick velvet carpet in the dark. His hurrying footsteps are muffled by the orchestra's loud trumpets, and the singers' cries of desperation. The play has reached its peak, the dramatic outburst. The devil himself has come to dine with the mortals. Carolyn hurries to keep up and tries to reach for Douglas. She is truly entertaining the idea, that her employee is having a stroke. He has tears in his eyes and he runs down the walkway, emanating murmurs and huffs of surprise and annoyance from the spectators.

He heads for the space in front and lower of the stage that is occupied by the orchestra. He is stopped by two astounded usherettes that try to explain calmly to the panting and heaving man, that he cannot bother the musicians, while they're performing. Carolyn cannot hear the conversation over the loud music, but she can see Douglas protesting and ignoring the advice he is given to wait at the foyer.

She leans forward and shouts at his ear in an attempt to be heard. "Douglas, are you mad? You are going to get us kicked out by the security!"

_"Don Giovanni! A cenar teco m'invitasti" – "Don Giovanni! __You invited me to dine with you"_

"Carolyn, Martin!" he almost screams as he is pointing at something over the, frightened now, usherettes and below the stage. Why the devil, would he mention Martin right now? She thinks she has misheard. She tries to see by standing on her tip-toes and craning her neck.

_"M'ivitasti e son venuto" – "You invited me and I came"_

The bright lights of the stage make the orchestra look dim lit; the only sources of light are the little LEDs over musicians' scores. The violins are playing an ominous and dangerous tune. The first violinist is shaking with the effort and he is producing the most angelic melody Carolyn has ever heard. The boy is skillful. Sudden tongues of fire come through the stage as Commandatore, the statue, comes to life and points threateningly at Don Giovanni. The red bright flames illuminate the musicians and the young fiddler. His eyes are closed shut, lips into a thin line betraying concentration, eyes filling with tears. Carolyn thinks his hair is on fire, because the wild locks that frame his bony face are bright red. But as the flames die and the aristocrat is escorted by the Devil himself, descending to hell, she realizes that the virtuoso has flaming ginger hair.

_Oh._

_"Questo è il fin di chi fa mal, e de' perfidi la morte alla vita è sempre ugual" – "Such is the end of the evildoer: the death of a sinner always reflects his life"_


	2. Encore

"Encore"

_ Notes: I own nothing. Beta'd by the beautiful firefly.1212!_

"Martin. Martin!" Sally's voice can be heard louder over the crowd's clamor, louder than all the other bees.

He packs his violin, the old wooden instrument in the black worn-out leather case. He has had this case since high-school; his favourite music teacher gave it to him as a present. This violin though, he didn't acquired until much later. He bought it when he went for his first audition in the music school. He knew his old instrument was designed for preadolescent kids, who have just started taking lessons, and he was embarrassed to audition with it. Ergo, he started working various jobs, as a waiter, as a post man, as the man who refuels at the fueling stations. After three summers of copious and mundane work, but he managed to raise enough money. He entered the store and bought the most economical violin for adult professional players. Not of a known brand obviously, but the sound pleased him. It is a decent instrument, and as the seller said, a violin gets better with the playing. His definitely had; the more he practiced, the sweeter the strings played the notes. He was accepted with his first try, but he couldn't attend. The city where he was living was far away from the college, and he couldn't rent a house near to it.

He was only eighteen back then, and he was still fighting to make his own baby steps out in the big bad world. Ironically enough, his life after coming of age was actually easier than living at home. He escaped the insanity of the pretention of a twisted domesticity.

"Yes, Sally!" He turns and looks at her; she is beaming.

"Martin, you were spectacular! I told you!" she hugs him tightly.

"Thank you! Oh… Thank you," he mumbles, inhaling the smell of her hair. He buries his nose in the curve of her neck, holding her tight. He is almost ready to break down. All these things that he had never let out, all these feelings of insecurity, the fear of failure, the dread of making a and the expectancy of only ridicule and derision have been bottled up. Now he thinks that they are bursting out of his chest, that he had a torrent of blackness in his heart, which is now washed out by his tears. He holds onto poor Sally for dear life. She doesn't deserve this, she was always kind and supportive and….

"Shhhh. Martin. What's the matter?" She softly takes his face between her two palms. The pilot is a miserable sight. His face has turned red and he sobs uncontrollably. He dives into her open embrace.

"I don't know…Everything's perfect!" She chuckles. The ginger gangly man seems to control his breathing again and the sniffles are less noisy.

"All is so damnably, perfectly well."

"No need to cry then, huh? C'mon let's go to the bathroom. You should get all cleaned up." He carefully disentangles from her and straightens his clothes.

"Here." She gives him a tissue which he gratefully uses and restores some of his dignity. He sighs and smiles at Sally.

"Sally, I am very sorry, I-"

"Martin!" A black haired woman with beautiful curls runs into the slander's man embrace and threatens to top him over.

"Barbara! How did you…?" Martin looks flabbergasted and Sally is looking at the newcomer with narrowed eyes.

"Martin! I told you there was no way I could have missed that! You were brilliant! These are for you!" She steps back, breaking the embrace and presents him with a bouquet of colourful flowers.

"Flowers? For me? Thank you so much! I…. They're beautiful!" Martin leans in to smell the roses and the white lilies with closed eyes and a wide smile on his face.

"Hello, I'm Barbara; I live in the flat below Martin." She smiles and shakes Sally's hand.

"Hello, nice to meet you! I play the violin too, but I'm in the seconds." Sally seems more relaxed and the mood has changed for the better.

"God, Martin, were you crying?" Barbara reaches out her hand and trails with her fingertips the musician's tear stained cheeks.

"I was… No. I'm happy! I…" He raises his eyes and immediately freezes, his gaze focused on a spot just above Barbara's head.

"Martin?" Both of the girls exclaim.

"I just… I… wait a minute. How? Oh, god!" The pilot has turned a deathly pale colour.

"The opera! The opera tickets that Herc gave to Carolyn! Oh my god!"

The girls share worried and surprised looks as Martin turns abruptly to strap his violin case.

"I am sorry, I need to go. Sally, thank you, I am sorry. Bye! Barbara, did you bring your car? Could you-" He is panicking, fidgeting nervously and looking in the brink of starting to run away but a firm hand touched his shoulder. He drops his bags and he catches the violin just before the case hits the ground.

"Martin! What the devil are you doing here?" He stammers and turns slowly.

"Douglas… What…" He swallows. "How nice to see you here! Unexpected! Carolyn, hi!" He half laughs and half cries, and he is shaking like a leaf. He doesn't realise _why_ he is feeling like he was caught red-handed doing a terrible deed. His face is flaming red.

"You saw us, pretended you didn't and then proceeded to flee! You sneaky pilot!"

Carolyn cries out and points his finger at him accusingly, but her eyes smile.

"Barbara! Here you are too!" Douglas turns to shake her hand.

"Hi!" Carolyn waves at her smiling.

"You know each other?" Martin squeals. His ears have turned an alarming shade of cherry red.

"Martin, didn't we tell you that Barbara was kind enough to guide us to your luxurious suite?" Douglas leans almost seductively to kiss Sally's hand.

"And who is that wonderful lady?" Martin looking absolutely scandalized hurries to do the introductions.

"Sally, this is my First Officer Douglas. Douglas, Sally plays violin in our orchestra."

"Enchanté." The grey haired pilot smirks. Martin looks positively nervous and ashamed.

"Douglas, I think we should…" The ginger man points to the other end of the stage, from where everyone departs. "… go?"

* * *

"Who would have thought…?" Douglas sits on the stiff mattress on the floor looking entirely too pleased with himself while Carolyn occupies the armchair. Martin is busy pretending to pile books away, his back turned so he can conceal his furious blushing.

"That our captain is a violin virtuoso?"

Martin drops the books and sighs.

"And why is that so hard to believe?" He turns to look at his first officer, slightly offended.

"Hard? Not hard. Just surprising!" he smirks.

"Why in the world you never breathed a word about it?" Carolyn scolds the young man.

"I don't know. I suppose I would if they would accept me at a larger orchestra. I never thought that it was something worth sharing. It is just a hobby." He shrugs his shoulders and rests his palms at his hips.

"Just a hobby? Martin, you were brilliant!" Douglas exclaims as he reaches to grab the distressed man by the shoulders to emphasise his point.

"Brilliant? Interesting word choice!" Martin looks up at the older man and smiles broadly.

"Thank you Douglas." He says softly and he looks straight at the other man's eyes. He doesn't think he ever has before. God, they're mesmerizing. He shifts his weight and tilts his head. The rustling of his clothes makes him aware of the tightness of the grip the other man has on him. His hands are soft and graceful, his fingers securely holding him. Comforting. Sturdy. Martin feels lightheaded and smiles dazedly.

Douglas' eyes widen in surprise. He lets go of the ginger man's arms and swallows, his throat strangely uncooperative. The sudden stretching silence comforts him and as he looks again at his captain he sees that he's flustered.

"Martin, if you want my opinion as well, I thought you were very skillful, if I know anything of that sort of thing." Her voice startles the pair of them and they both turn their gazes abruptly to see her smug smile. Her gaze flickers between the two of them suggestively. Martin takes two steps away from the grey haired man and looks at the ground. Douglas clears his throat discreetly.

"Thank you Carolyn, I really appreciate it. I mean… I never thought that you would be interested in something like that." Martin smiles hesitantly this time and raises his eyes from the floor.

"Well, I think that this event should be celebrated. What do you think?"

Douglas turns to Carolyn. "Of course! I am sure you know a nice fancy restaurant for the occasion." She smiles and grabs her coat. Martin opens his mouth to protest but Carolyn waves him to silence.

"Besides Martin, Douglas would accompany me to dinner anyway." She rushes to the door.

"Would he really?" Martin looks unconvinced and nervous.

"Of course, he would. We're both starving!"

"Well, if the lady insists, it would be rude to deny her. Martin?"

Martin sighs in a fashion of mock defeat.

"I don't have anything to wear! How fancy is the restaurant?"

* * *

"That was lovely, Douglas thank you! Although, I am a little bit surprised how you managed not to pay for a three-person luxurious dinner. Let me guess, another friend of yours who owes you a "favour"?"

Martin's cheeks are flushed from the Cabernet wine and his gait is slightly uncertain. Two glasses of wine and he is almost drunk. Douglas sighs as he grabs his arm straightening him and halting his almost certain trip on a drain's metal bars on the pavement.

"Watch it Martin! Jesus!" He gasps but giggles nevertheless.

"Sorry!" Martin mumbles, still laughing.

"Martin are you…? Could you be possibly a bit tipsy?" Carolyn looks amused and she clutches her purse tightly as a suspicious looking man almost bumps into her.

"No! Of course not." The pilot waves dismissively but is still laughing. "Well, maybe a little bit. I never drink wine. It gets me pretty quickly. Barbara said it's because I'm a lightweight." He stumbles and lets out a small yelp.

Douglas swears and grabs him by his waist before he falls flat at his face.

"God! Martin!" Carolyn half heartedly chastises.

"Oh for the love of…! Why must you be a moving disaster?"

"Douglas? I think I twisted my ankle."

* * *

"Carolyn, just get in the car please."

Douglas hisses with effort as he drags Martin in the backseat, almost carrying the man in his arms. Martin seems to stop struggling to move on his own volition and he lets himself be handled. Carolyn sits on the front seat of the shiny Lexus and she looks irritated. Douglas closes the door after he makes sure Martin is comfortable and sits before the wheel. He sighs and starts the engine.

"So what now?" She looks at the older man with an exasperated expression and she rests his head on the chair. "Is he alright?"

"No Carolyn. I'm dropping you home and then I'm taking Martin at the hospital, I'm afraid."

* * *

"This is stupid. Go home," Martin whines and he squeezes his eyes shut, blinking furiously at the bright white hospital light. He sits on a wheelchair and his foot is wrapped in bandages.

"You are stupid. Don't be though, because how on earth are you going to get home all on your own?"

"I could phone Barbara, she told me to call if I-"

"Oh, shut up!" Douglas pinches the bridge of his nose and yawns.

"You don't have to. Thank you," says Martin in a small voice. He turns his head awkwardly and smiles, a small twitch on his lips. Douglas forgets his tired feet and his splitting headache.

"Nonsense." He smiles back and fights an urge to touch the ginger locks plastered with sweat at his pale face.

* * *

"Ok, one last step. You can do that. Just one last step. Don't grab my neck, you're choking me! Just put your arm around my waist!"

"For God's sake Douglas, I can't… Just take my arm and… Oh!"

Hopping on one foot, Martin takes two leaps and collapses on the mattress as soon as the door opens. He grunts and runs his hands through his hair.

The grey haired man drags the old wooden chair over and sits down with a loud thud.

"Oh Martin! I am not as young as I used to be!" he laughs and rubs his lower waist.

"Douglas… Thank you." Martin has his eyes closed and his head has sunk to his chest. His hands are fisted on the duvets limply.

Douglas looks up and he finds it impossible to come up with anything to say. It's probably the fiftieth time Martin had expressed his gratitude. The heavy silence stretches out heavy, and he stares at the exhausted figure curled up on the bed. His captain is thin, impossibly so, far thinner that it is healthy, surely. His muscles are lean but well-defined, especially noticeable on his arms. His fingers are long and delicate, perfect for a violinist. How has he never had thought of that? Martin's hands and fingers were always well cared, his nails almost manicured, whereas he paid next to no attention to his outer appearance. He should have also noticed how good Martin was at their "Name classical pieces with an animal in their title" game. He had thought of some, that even Douglas had missed! The clues were all there. He had been frightfully unobservant.

Maybe his deductions were severely compromised by emotions. Maybe he had grown too soft and his romantic musings were just the delirium of an old, three times divorced, and fading man. Maybe he was just blinded by the vigor and vibe of youth and he was trying to relive past glories. Because, even if it had taken courage and time to admit it, he envied Martin. Yes. Douglas, the pilot prodigy of Air England, the man who took women and men to bed as soon as he flashed a smile, the man with the shiny Lexus and the luxurious loft, envied and admired Martin. Martin, of all people!

Martin who lives in an atrocious attic, with barely enough money to get through the week, who trips and dances around his words and flushes a deep red and looks at his feet. He is also the man who fought with tooth and nails to get his license, who never had luck or money on his side. He is the man who flies an old little plane for hours on end with an obnoxious, sarcastic old man and a controlling old woman by his side. He is the man who looks up at the sky and his eyes are smiling and he seems unearthly, happy. Like he belongs. Douglas never belonged.

And lately Douglas found out, that Martin is the man who touches a wooden inanimate object and gives life to animated thoughts and feelings. How didn't he see? Martin always was the light and fire of desire and persistence. How could he not predict that whatever he touched would be nothing but the definition of his spark, of his essence? How couldn't he predict that sweet, strong, Martin would uncover his soul and sang, made, thought of music, the same way his eyes are filled with wonder and awe as they gaze the horizon.

His derailing thoughts are interrupted by the captain's distressed sounds of writhing and groaning, spread on the sheets, as he tries to find comfortable position to lessen the throb in his hurt foot as tears of irritation and exhaustion creep in. Douglas takes in the sight, breathless as he is, and cannot help but wonder if he could elicit such undignified sounds from Martin.

But that is not quite right. He wants to worship the man, to make his body play music and to lavish him with words of appreciation and acts of humbleness. To make him appreciate himself and erase the ugliness from all things mundane and vulgar. Instead he leans and aligns Martin carefully to lie on his back. He tries to find any spare pillows to stuff under his injured foot but he can't find any. He sits by his side and rests his bandaged ankle on his thighs. The young man gives a little whimper of protest at the slight movement and his head lolls sideways, resting on the thin pillow.

"Douglas?" he whispers.

"Yes?"

"You don't have to stay. Go home. You've done more than enough and I… thank you." He doesn't open his eyes.

"Martin, stop thanking me! Frankly it has become offending!"

Douglas smiles as he comically pretends to be seriously affronted. Martin smiles back with heavy eyelids. As an afterthought Douglas adds, "Do you want me to stay?"

"I…I…" He is already surrendering to sleep. He shakes his head vigorously.

"Can I stay?" The words are out before he realises he's said them, but the older man cannot bring himself to care.

Martin opens his emerald eyes. He stares curiously.

"Please stay. I would like that, yes."

Something shifts in his expression and Douglas feels his resolution to remain detached and professional and not to resemble a love stricken teenager start to crumble.

"Oh God!" The first officer exclaims and plunges forward and by some miracle stops his body from crushing the lean man underneath him. His left hand supports his weight, shaking, and his right sinks into the heavenly soft curls. The pilot shudders and arches his back, trying to crush their chests together. Douglas in response leans intending to kiss Martin's inviting lips but the captain maneuvers his body and buries his face in Douglas' neck. His ginger curls tickle the older man's face and he inhales deeply, simply holding and breathing. Martin makes a low humming noise and Douglas' throat goes dry. He snaps his head back and takes the younger man's face into his hands. In a surprising moment of clarity he pauses and considers.

"Martin, are you sure you…?"

Martin's eyes are blown wide, his ears, neck and cheeks beautifully flustered pink. His breathing is uncontrolled and rugged and Douglas can feel the pulse in Martin's wrists. Martin purrs and his eyes flutter closed.

"God, Douglas, please… Just please… Do something!"

"What?" Douglas leans is and teases with his teeth Martin's ear. Martin makes a low strangled noise and his hands move to cling on Douglas's back.

"Please… touch me!"

He almost sobs. That is all the encouragement the first officer needs and he slips his hands gracefully down the other man's shirt and trails over the soft skin that contrasts with the cheap hard cotton fabric. Martin smells of wood and soap, a strange and distinct combination. He inhales sharply and wishes to get drunk on this smell. Martin's eyes are closed in elation and he makes no movement whatsoever, apart from arching into the touches and mumbling incoherent musings. The boy seems blissful and Douglas swells with affection, protectiveness and pride, a mixture of feelings that he is not sure he wants to contemplate on.

He realises that they haven't been kissed yet, and he intends to savour the moment. As soon as he leans to remedy that, Martin stiffens and his hand is brought quickly to clutch Douglas' shirt, his eyes snap open.

"Douglas… Douglas… Wait." His voice sounds rough and sleepy. Douglas' stomach drops.

"God, Martin! Have I done something…?"

He immediately tries to stand to disentangle himself from the lanky captain, whose legs are tightly secured around his waist and is currently straddling him like a giant octopus. Had he miscalculated the situation? A cold wave of dread and fear of uncertainty washes over him, but as he tries to move away, Martin's legs squeeze gently around him.

"No, Douglas, wait." His voice is soft and his eyes stare openly at Douglas'. The self proclaimed sky-god forgets to breathe, as he takes in the sight laid before him. The young man's posture, carriage and bearing betray an unprecedented vulnerability, an abandonment of pretences. Douglas is enthralled and terrified at the same time.

"Douglas, nothing is wrong; don't worry." He gave a wry smile. "Please, just…"

He sighs and untangles his legs. The first officer slides beside him.

"Douglas, I haven't… I mean, not with a man, and not with anybody. It wasn't because I didn't have the chance, but because I didn't _want_ to have the chance. And you're really great and wonderful and I would like to have this but I'm not sure if I would like to have this or some twisted version of me that wants to satisfy the social norms. And my point is, I don't want to have sex with you."

Martin stops rambling and looks up at Douglas, only to be greeted by the dumbfounded expression of the older man. His eyes wide, he stumbles through words.

"Oh god! I didn't mean that to sound that way! I mean I didn't want to say that I don't want to have sex with you specifically. I'm trying to say, I don't want to have sex with anyone. At least not right now. I… I am asexual. Kind of. But that doesn't mean that I don't want to ever… you know… And I like what we were doing and I wouldn't mind if it happened again. I mean…"

Douglas reaches to shush the younger captain with a soft touch of his finger to his lips.

"Martin, breathe. God, you can say whatever you want to say to me, and we don't need to rush. Just relax! You almost had a panic attack!"

Douglas chuckles nervously and the absurdity of it all and rests his head on the thin pillow. He finds Martin's hand and entwines their fingers. He looks at the ceiling. He sees a poster of the night sky and all the constellations stuck on it with cheap blue tack. Half of the paper is threatening to fall. He thinks of the gangly captain, balancing on the tips of his toes, trying to stick the uncooperative paper on the cement in a fruitless attempt to personalise the cold room. He thinks he has never pictured anything more beautiful. Martin is hope when luck has given up on the word. Kind, patient, humble, stubborn Martin, who fell and fell and fell _again,_ but never gave up. He always stood up again. He is a fighter. Douglas thinks how different they really are. He is not a fighter. Not really. He flees and survives. He turns to look at the pale face of the Captain, who scrutinises him, biting his lower lip anxiously.

"Martin, stop worrying yourself. Stop apologising. Stop. I have you. I just want to hold you. Well, I want so much more, but if you don't, I don't. I don't and I won't. How did you…? Asexual? From what I've gathered from a sporadically attended first year of med school only amoebas and protozoa are asexual."

Martin's eyes light up and he is smiling softly.

"No, Douglas. Amoebas are agender. Asexuality is a choice. Like bisexuality or homosexuality. But that doesn't mean that I am aromantic as well. I have feelings and urges for that matter, but I don't act on them too often. Well, I find it… disconcerting. Alienating. Is that…acceptable to you?"

His eyes are pleading, questioning. His hand hesitantly reaches to caress Douglas' arm. The first officer has a hollow feeling on his stomach and his jaw clenches reflexively.

"Of course it is! Anything. Anything, god. Martin, you don't need my _acceptance._ Hell, you don't even need my _tolerance_! You have obviously given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

Martin is silent for a few moments and suddenly he dissolves into laughter. Douglas raises his head and props himself up on his elbow to watch puzzled the ginger man doubled in two with laughter.

"Martin?" he questions hesitantly, half afraid that the painkillers are playing tricks on the lightweight captain.

"Douglas… sorry. I just…" He climbs on top of his curious partner, albeit rather awkwardly, avoiding moving the plaster, and he looks at him with smiling eyes.

"I just, wouldn't… I wouldn't believe, I still don't, that we… that you are interested in me that way. And that you don't mind me, even if I am… Well, even if I am that way."

He smiles broadly, happily. Douglas feels the pressing weight on his body and the warmth emanating from both of them.

"You are perfect. The way you are is a perfect way to be, Martin. What do you want? Show me."

"I don't really know. I mean I have no experience. I suppose… I don't know." Douglas sighs.

"Good. Okay. Tell me what you don't like, then. That should be easier."

"Oh god! I feel like a teenager all over again." Martin rolls his eyes in exasperation and huffs."Okay, I don't like sex, or being touched in the… um sensitive areas. I don't like rough movements or bad language and I don't like humiliation in any way imaginable. I don't object to nudity, kissing or touching as a general rule." Martin takes a deep breath and looks inquisitively at the man underneath him.

"None of that sounds unreasonable, and also, how on earth could you think that I would humiliate you?"

Martin swallows nervously, but presses his body tightly against Douglas'. They are laying on top of each other, the First Officer on his back and their limbs mirror the position of each other.

"I don't know. Some people tend to like that sort of thing… in bed. I don't. I wouldn't. I mean…"

"Martin, shush. Stop me if you want to."

Douglas flips Martin over and now the young man lies on his back. He spreads his fingers and rests his palm on the captain's chest. Martin feels the weight just above his heart and is surprised to find it oddly comforting. He locks his eyes with the grey haired man's and feels _oh so safe_. It _seems_ ridiculously surreal, yet it _feels_ so solid, so real in its absurdity. Douglas simply touches. Flickering fingers – a pianist's fingers – touch and explore.

Martin fears that his experienced lover will push too much, that he will ask – no demand – and claim what he cannot offer. Martin fears that his panic will get the better of him; that he will get up and run away with a sweat-soaked shirt clutched in his trembling hands and the incapacitating feelings of his own fear and guilt will cause his knees to weaken and his protests to get caught in his throat. Frightfully common paralyzing expectations. But Douglas doesn't push. He doesn't even kiss him; he doesn't undress him in a hurry, leaving his skin dreadfully exposed and naked. He doesn't forces his mouth open with a bold, dominating tongue. He doesn't shove him against the thin mattress; he doesn't leave bruises from sharp fingernails and tight grips. Instead, he presses his fingertips tenderly, curiously making paths up and down his arms, his collarbone, his neck. He gently removes a button then another then another of the only white shirt he put on in a feeble attempt to imitate formal clothing. He delicately strokes along his spine and Martin loses it. He's shivering and trembling, clutching the white sheets with white knuckles. Douglas is so close to him, so unbelievably close; he is _there_. His breath is warm on the captain's exposed skin and his loving hands leave a trail of fire in their tracks. They delve and erase each coherent thought from Martin's head. His worries and inhibitions vanish as he arches into the slightest of brushes against his untouched skin, feeling _so very much alive_. He doesn't need to hold his ground anymore. He just forgets and throws back his head, leaning towards the sensations and simultaneously squirming away. His head fills with music and the images of an endless sunset dance behind his eyelids. He doesn't know if it's his voice, that low humming noise, or just his blood rushing too fast. He doesn't understand the soft spoken words and he doesn't try to. He is to far too gone to care. He loses track of time.

* * *

He is vaguely aware of a cold liquid dripping through his half opened lips. He swallows reflexively and whines as his dry throat aches. Douglas chuckles.

"Hey… are you back with me?" One hand reaches to support the ginger's man neck and head and his upper body is lifted slowly off the mattress. Martin's mind is hazy and all he can do is hang limply from the strong arms of the older man.

"I never left. What do you mean?" His voice sounds rasp and rough. He coughs.

"Shhh… Drink this." A glass of water is lifted on his lips. Martin sips down hurriedly.

"You've been out. Sleeping or … surrendering to exhausted slumber? Firstly, I thought I did something, and you reacted badly, but then I noticed your breathing was even and you had fallen asleep straddling me, so an aversion to my touch was out of the question. Do I take it, that my ministrations were welcomed, then?"

Douglas looks nervous. Properly scared. Martin smiles brokenly and leans in. His lips touch the jaw line of his first officer. Douglas purrs seductively. They both chuckle.

"Sorry for sleeping right after... I think I might have been… over-stimulated. Thank you for that."

The sun is creeping through the large window, that covers the entire wall, and Douglas thinks that Martin's hair looks redder than usual, like fire. His eyes look greener than usual, like emeralds and his bone structure, so delicate yet so strong, reminds him that of a bird. He sighs in contentment. He kneels and sits at the edge of the narrow mattress, not big enough to accommodate two adult men lying next to each other.

"Martin, if we keep this up, we have to buy you a new bed." Douglas says teasingly as he abandons the water of glass on the wooden floor. Martin sits up and takes a large gulp of air. He crosses his legs and tilts his head.

"So, we will keep this up, then?" He flashes a small smile, but the first officer can see the hidden doubt.

"You, clot!" The silver haired man exclaims and ruffles the ginger locks lovingly.

* * *

Martin is standing before the large windowpane, or the entrance of his giant bird house, as Douglas calls it. He has a cuppa in his hands, and he is wearing different layers of old sweaters and worn out shirts. His pajama trousers are too long and baggy for him and as a result he always trips here and there over the excess of cloth. The heating is restored, thanks to Douglas' little – _major_ – input and the cold is not unbearable. His face is glued to the glass and his breath leaves a wet patch on the otherwise spotless glass.

The sky has his favourite colour today. It is completely covered by a thin veil of mist and unformed clouds, thus the dome is a light grey, blinding shade of white. A couple of birds fly right in front of his "observatory" and he follows their flapping black wings with his gaze.

He doesn't notice the scratching sound of the door opening, nor the light footsteps that make the wooden floor creak. He feels a familiar weight on his shoulder and smells of expensive cologne. He closes his eyes and leans his head to the touch.

"God, you're finally here!" he grumbles. Douglas seizes him by his waist.

"Watching the birds?" He smiles and kisses the tangled locks, resting his chin on the lean man's head.

"Envying them." Martin replies in a low voice.

The sky never changes its colours.

* * *

"Douglas, you're early! To which kind-spirited God, do we owe our gratitude?"

Carolyn is in good spirits. Herc and she had a beautiful evening the previous day and she thinks that maybe – just maybe – her life is taking a turn for the good. She left early to prepare GERTI, believing that not even Martin would be there yet. She is utterly surprised to find of her pilots ready and in uniform for that horrid flight to Moscow. Her eyes narrow.

"Good morning, Carolyn!" Both men simultaneously exclaim and immediately after they dissolve in giggles.

"What fresh hell is this?" Carolyn notices that Douglas' hand is – not so subtly – positioned on the inside of Martin's thigh.

"Well, Carolyn, I think we'll disagree." Martin responds leaning to take the first officer's hand in his own.

"Disagree?" Carolyn's frustration and astonishment suppress her smirk that would otherwise adorn her lips.

"Not much of a hell." Martin continues and grins… suggestively? Could that be?

Douglas, looking as smug as ever, caps Martin's delicate, pale fingers and smiles broadly at Carolyn.

"You fools! Don't expect me to explain _this_ – whatever it is – to Arthur."

She turns on her heels, but before she closes the galley door behind her, she hears faint voices of the two grown men joking and teasing.

"Moscow, isn't it?"

"It is," Martin replies.

"Long journey, then. Let me think… How about real life people who would make good James Bond villains?"

She smiles. Well, some things never change.

* * *

It is a bleak Sunday morning. Too bleak for Douglas' liking. The only good thing about that day is that he – a middle aged, washed out man – woke up next to a young beautiful boy, looking at him with adoration mirrored in those big, kind eyes. Now they are sitting on two wooden chairs, their breakfast plates on the kitchen table in front of the large window. They're looking at the sky, Martin's favourite place. He refuses to leave his ghastly attic and move – for the weekends at least – to Douglas' larger apartment. Even for convenience's sake! Ergo, they are crouched on the small room, gazing the horizon. Martin's eyes are dreamy, locked on that far away line between sky and earth.

"God, you're a hopeless romantic, Martin!" Douglas says, looking at his captain.

"Yes, I suppose I am. But why are you commenting on it now?" Martin never flicks his gaze.

"You look at the sky like you've never seen the light of day before. I get it, you like flying but…"

Martin turns abruptly and his eyes glimmer. The look on his face shuts Douglas' mouth. He sighs and averts his gaze.

"Do you know why I like flying?"

Douglas opens his mouth to answer.

"No, you don't. It is for the same reason that I like playing the violin."

The older man senses that his little comment has started something big. _Really_ big. Martin's voice has a strange edge.

"Flying doesn't only mean freedom for me, as you may have thought. Nothing so plebeian. It means that I get to touch something greater than me, than you, than humanity. It means that I stroke _infinity_. With my music, I conquer _immortality_. Having done both, I feel alive."

Douglas doesn't respond. The words seem alien coming from Martin. Sweet, shy Martin. He looks at his lover. He seems distant. He wants to touch his fair skin to assure himself that he is real. That he is present.

"That's why I won't let you, or anyone else, sully me. That's why I don't permit myself to surrender to actions of vulgarity. We all try to get away from something, Douglas. I try to get away from my ephemerality. The sky is limitless and music is undying. We are but mere mortals. We are the _"__moyens d'esprit__"._ I strive to become _l'esprit._ Anything else is inconsequential."

His eyes are piercing and yet so sad, so vacant. Douglas feels his chest tighten.

"Sully? Am I inconsequential?" He fears the answer that this new Martin would give.

"You are quintessential. You are like the sky."

"How so?" Suddenly the air is punched out of his lungs.

"The birds need a sky to fly to. Where was I supposed to fly to?"

* * *

The next morning Martin is Martin again. Douglas almost forgets the odd musings of the day before. Almost.

* * *

"Why won't you play for me?"

The room smells of roasted beef and olive oil. Douglas is standing in the middle of the kitchen, a spatula in one hand and a big fork on the other. After long arguments about the nutritional value of toast and pasta, they both agreed to a new dietary schedule, which contains the minimum of three times meat per week. Martin scoffed at first, throwing a tremendous fit about how he can take care of himself and doesn't need a handler, but his protests were half hearted. Right now, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

"God, Douglas! That smells deliciously! I didn't know you could cook!"

"Martin! Once again you underestimate me. So, will you answer my question?" Douglas smiles playfully, trying to manipulate a positive answer from his captain, while serving the mouth watering dish on a ceramic plate. Martin sighs.

"I've told you Douglas. Playing is something I do in private. I have never performed in front of anyone, with the exception of my orchestra. That is one of the main reasons I hesitated to become part of it."

Douglas rolls his eyes.

"Captain, why so much secrecy? You're brilliant at it, you shouldn't be ashamed or..."

"Ashamed? Oh no. You've got it wrong." He laughs and sets down his knife and fork.

"Quite the opposite really. I am snobbish. I am very eclectic regarding my audience." He smirks teasingly and Douglas can't suppress a growing smirk. He drops the subject.

* * *

Martin agrees to spend some weekends in Douglas' house. He is impressed by the luxurious apartment, and he feels slightly uncomfortable, sitting on the large leather couch, dirtying the fine carpet with his shoes. Douglas arrives, a tray with teapot and cookies on his hands, and Martin allows himself to be lost in the familiar domesticity.

Later that day, Martin is sprawled on the comfortable double bed and decides that yes he needs to buy a bigger one.

* * *

They fly to the Bahamas for an eccentric millionaire who is afraid that all the major airlines have hired spies as pilots so they can kill him and claim his company. He wears a yellow shirt with palm trees and sleeps during most of the flight. He is escorted by a beautiful lady, half his age, dressed in a mini dress and high heels. She doesn't speak English and when she leans to kiss the elderly man, his hands grope unashamedly at her thighs. When he wakes up he shouts and roars that his baggage is lost and snaps at a crying Arthur. Martin refuses the money he throws at him, then he goes home and picks up his violin.

* * *

"Hey Douglas, Martin!" Arthur snaps the door of the cockpit open and Martin gives a little startled cry, jumping on his chair.

"God Arth-". Douglas' words halt suddenly and his face falls.

"What in the name of sanity are you wearing?" Martin dissolves into giggles. Arthur makes a turn and raises his hands in triumph.

"I will play Dumaine for the next performance of the AAA."

Douglas scoffs. "Who's Dumaine? A medieval knight?"

"God, Douglas. You're a public school boy and you're shaming your breed." Martin is laughing uncontrollably, doubled over. "Dumaine is a Shakespearean character in Love's Labour Lost."

"Oh, Captain, any other hidden talents?" Martin smirks.

"AAA?" Douglas asks again.

"Amateur Actors Association. Will you come and see me? Mother will pay for the tickets!"

"Tickets? People pay for this... this?" Douglas points at the velvet medieval costume.

"Of course we'll come, Arthur! Douglas, don't be rude!" Martin interferes with a chastising expression.

"Oh, artists united then? Will you form a parliamentary party too?"

* * *

They fly to Greece for a mute mathematician with pale skin and dark hair, who has his face glued on the window, smiling at the passing clouds. He sits quietly in his chair, scribbling in a notebook with his seatbelt fastened, even when the light is off. Martin helps him carry a large sac-voyage double his own weight, after seeing him struggle endlessly to drag and lift the heavy leather bag. The man raises his eyes for a split second from the ground, and with low voice murmurs a thousand words of gratitude and apology, explaining that the sack is full of books that are very weighty. Martin assures him that he doesn't mind helping him and accidentally touches his arm. The man freezes and bolts away from the brushing touch. He smiles awkwardly and departs with ungraceful parting words, leaving Martin standing like a frozen statue.

* * *

"Douglas, so you still want me to play to you?"

"Yes."

"I can't do that."

"Okay, then. I told you, whatever you feel comfortable with, I would-"

"I meant, that I don't ever play to people. I won't play _to_ you. I want to play _for_ you."

"..."

"Good, I thought so. Can I trouble you and ask you to visit me today at my flat?"

"Of course. No trouble at all."

"Good. That's... good."

* * *

Douglas sits inside his Lexus and stares out of the window at the grey building. He can't make his legs cooperate and get out of the car. He is afraid. Afraid and doubting himself. A strange knot has been set in his stomach and his muscles are tense. His body is covered in cold sweat. How is he supposed to react, how is he supposed to comment. It is a mathematically certainty that he will mess this up.

During these five months, he's spent together with the ginger pilot, he's seen another side of Martin – a side that alienated and even scared him at first. That of a grown up man, who has faced too many difficulties for his own good. That of a fiercely independent person who strives only for progress and evolves himself, absorbing all the trails of decency and morality he can. That of a great artist with a sensitive psyche, who hides his idiosyncrasy behind a veil and a pretext of normalcy. That is the greatest disguise, after all. But most of all, Douglas has found an idealist, and sometimes – just sometimes – Martin does not resemble a person. He resembles an idea. A very well defined and unyielding idea.

Sometimes, when they are lying together in the midst of the night, Martin would start talking about nothing in particular, but about everything all at once, and his voice would be steady and sure, without a hint of stammer or uncertainty, and his words would resemble the wind. They would be passionate and full of rage, or soft and caressing, but always, _always_, they would creep inside the middle aged man and crawl into his bones. Their echo would remain in his mind, probing and probing, before his poor mind would reach a sudden revelation. How many things he hasn't understood, how many things he wants to ask! But one cannot ask the right questions, if one is afraid of the answers. And Douglas is afraid of the answers.

He gets out of the car, crossing the abandoned construction site next to the old house. His shiny leather shoes are scratched by the sharp gravel. He knocks at the door with the fear and awe of the illiterate man fearing the Judgement as he attends the Sunday Service. How can he compare? Why was he so blessed with this trust?

Nobody answers, but the door is unlocked, so he gently pushes it and enters. He closes it behind him, in an attempt to keep the chilling cold from entering the building with the insufficient heat that is provided by the old central heater. He tries to clear his head and get rid of all his emotionalisms. _Misplaced_ emotionalisms. He climbs the stairs and finds Martin's door open too. Curious and a bit worried he knocks hesitantly. Martin comes to the door with tired eyes and a thin sleeveless shirt. He doesn't speak, turning his back on Douglas gesturing for him to follow. The older man doesn't mind closing the door behind him and takes a couple of small steps inside.

Martin stands in front of his favourite window and his eyes are cold, unreachable. He takes his bow and applies the rosin. He places the dark rose instrument at his shoulder and for a moment he doesn't move. Douglas realises he's holding his breath. Then Martin starts playing and the Earth tilts a bit on her axis. Maybe the birds fly higher.

* * *

The next day, the sun doesn't rise - or if it does, neither of them is blinded by its light.


End file.
